


Asylum Harbour: Another Collection of Short Terror Fics

by Gigi_Sinclair



Series: All Night In: Short Terror Fics [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, Crossover, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Asylum harbour": Royal Navy expression for a harbour used to provide shelter from a storm.A collection of short Terror fics from Tumblr.
Relationships: Lucien Grimaud/Thomas Jopson, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: All Night In: Short Terror Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813006
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	1. From This Day Forward, rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bluebacchus requested the prompt, "I found you while dressing for our wedding."

“Oh. I thought you were Billy.”

“Wasn’t that the first thing you ever said to me?”

“That was ‘I thought you were Billy, sir.'” Tom corrects him. He’d been off-duty then, as Edward recalls, enjoying the Mediterranean sun in a T-shirt and shorts. He’d looked gorgeous, but not as good as he looks now, half-dressed for the wedding in his grey trousers, white silk shirt and black socks. “You know we’re not meant to see one another before the ceremony.” He doesn’t sound cross about it. Edward is grateful for that.

“I need help with my cummerbund.”

The excuse is flimsy. He could have sought out his father, or one of his many brothers, brothers-in-law and friends scattered about the hotel. He’d wanted to see Tom. Had to see Tom.

Even though they’d been living together for years, Tom insisted on staying apart the night before their wedding. Edward had agreed, for the sake of tradition and because Tom wanted it, but he’d found it very hard to sleep alone. Now, just being in the same room as him brings Edward an overwhelming sense of calm he sorely needed. He lets out a heavy sigh he hadn’t known he was holding in.

“All right, love?” Tom looks at him with concern. “Nervous?”

“Not in that way.” He wasn’t worried he was making a mistake or anything of that sort. He would have married Tom years ago, given the opportunity. The day they met, probably. “I needed to make sure this was really happening.” Out loud, it sounds silly, but Edward pushes on. “That you hadn’t, you know, changed your mind or anything.”

“Edward!” Tom pulls him close. Just like that, Edward is reassured, no words or further action necessary. He smiles when Tom kisses his carefully shaved cheek and says, “I’ll help you with the cummerbund, but then you have to go. All right?”

As Tom ties the sash about his waist, Edward catches a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror.

“I’m so lucky to have you.” It’s not an unusual thought. Edward has had it at least once a day for the past seven years, but he doesn’t remember ever voicing it before.

Tom catches his eye in the reflection. “I think we’re both lucky, darling.” After a long moment that still, somehow, doesn’t seem quite long enough, there’s a knock at the door and Tom’s groomsmen are barrelling in, all but shoving Edward out into the corridor. He returns to his room, eager to see Tom fully dressed at the ceremony, and even more eager to start their married life together.


	2. Not the Mountain, But Ourselves, rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whalersandsailors requested the prompt “I found you In the bathroom at a formal event, crying in the bathroom over how you saw yourself as ugly” (I took a little creative license with the bathroom thing.)
> 
> Title from Sir Edmund Hillary: “It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.”

The sound is barely audible. Edward only hears it because he has brought himself away from the bustle of the party to stand in the quieter area near the garden door. He thinks at first to ignore it, but it is so mournful, so pitiful, and it does not cease. At last, he drains his drink, places the glass on the table, and goes to investigate.

What he finds shocks him.

“Lieutenant Jopson!” The lieutenant sits outside, hunched on a bench. He straightens up the moment he hears his name, his hand brushing at his face. It is too late. Even in the twilight, Edward can see Thomas Jopson’s cheeks are blotchy, his eyes reddened with tears.

“Are you all right?” Empathy seizes Edward, along with a touch of panic. “Shall I fetch Captain Crozier?”

“No!” Thomas’ response is vehement. “I’m fine. Just…resting a while. It is rather loud inside.”

Edward understands completely. “I confess, I find these parties difficult to bear myself.” There have been many since the expedition limped home. Thanks in large part to the unwavering efforts of Lady Jane, the surviving officers have been received as heroes, fêted over and over again by the Navy and the cream of London society alike. Edward supposes it is better than having to suffer a court martial, but not by much.

“You do, sir?”

“Edward,” Edward corrects, not for the first time. “Or Little, if that is not possible for you. And you cannot be overly surprised to learn my skills at small talk are mediocre at best.”

“That is simply not true.” A quick flash of white in the darkness shows Edward he is smiling, at least. “You are the picture of the perfect officer, si—Edward. Whereas I…” Thomas sighs heavily. “They can tell I am a pretender to the station. There is no hiding it.”

“What rubbish.” Edward has never heard anything more ridiculous. “You are a fine officer. Crozier would not have named you to the position if you did not merit it.”

Thomas snorts, evidently unconvinced. “My appearance is not that of a ‘fine officer.'”

Thomas was scarred by his experiences in the North. They all were, to some extent. He is missing teeth, his eyes are sunken, and still, after months in England, he is slender to the point of emaciation. But he is here, and he is alive, and that alone is beauty in Edward’s mind. “If perfect looks are now a requirement, I know a great many officers who need to resign their commissions posthaste, myself included.” That earns him a chuckle. Buoyed by it, Edward continues. “Your appearance bears testimony to your strength. That you are here is a miracle, Thomas, and one for which I am personally grateful every day.” It’s the closest he’s come to admitting the depth of feeling he harbours for the man. Feelings he had on the ship, and that have not dimmed since. Rather the reverse:: they have grown brighter and more prominent as Thomas’ true strength has been revealed. 

“You are too kind,” Thomas replies, softly.

“I speak only the truth.”

There’s a rustle, and before Edward knows what’s happening, Thomas is embracing him. It is quick and light, but it sets Edward’s heart to racing. “We…ah, we should return to the party,” Edward says. “We will be missed.” Thomas will be missed, in any case. He can’t think anyone is longing for his own dull, dour presence.

“Or perhaps,” Thomas’ voice is tentative. “Perhaps we might be scandalously rude and sneak away.”

“Sneak away?”

“I am not enjoying myself here. Neither, it seems, are you. There is an alehouse nearby that makes an excellent beef pie. Or so I have heard.” Thomas stops. Edward hesitates, a moment too long evidently, for the other man quickly continues: “But, of course, we should return to the party, you’re absolutely correct, Edward. It would be terribly impolite to…”

“Hang 'impolite.’ The beef pie sounds delightful.” More delightful still is the thought of time alone with this wonderful, beautiful man. He holds out an arm. Thomas takes it, and the two of them head off, side by side, into the night.


	3. Always Tired But Never of You, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vivicaine requested "“I found you grasping to hold onto me.”

Thomas has sported with many men, both on ship and ashore. “Sporting” is an accurate word for it. It has always been quick and has usually been satisfying, and Thomas has never had cause for complaint. Speed is of the utmost necessity in situations like these. To linger invites discovery, and Thomas is clever enough to avoid that at all costs.

He always thought Lieutenant Little clever as well, and most cautious. It was years before he even touched Thomas, a light squeeze of his elbow as they passed in the perpetually tilted passageway. From Edward—and since the day of that touch, he has been Edward—that squeeze spoke volumes.

It seems meaningful too that even now, after several enjoyable encounters, Edward is reluctant to release Thomas once they have descended from the peak of their pleasure. Rather the reverse. He holds tightly, grasping at him even as their breathing slows and the sweat cools on their bodies.

“I should leave,” Thomas whispers. He feels most disinclined to go.

“Yes,” Edward agrees, without moving.

It will come to a bad end. It always does. If they are rescued and brought back to England, Edward, like the officers Thomas had before him, will suffer a sudden loss of memory when it comes to Thomas and all they were to one another. He will be promoted to Commander, will marry well, will carry on with his life. If he ever thinks of Thomas at all, it will be as a “good sort” who was “a bit of fun for a while.”

If they are not rescued…Thomas does not dare consider that scenario.

None of it matters in this moment. For now, Thomas is content to let Edward keep hold, content to let him hang on until the men begin to stir and it becomes too dangerous to hesitate any longer.

For now, Thomas thinks, sinking into those strong arms, that forceful grip, he is happy. It is not a feeling he has often these days. It is a novelty. He will grasp it, clinging to Edward in return, and hold onto both the sentiment and the man as rapaciously as he can for as long as he is permitted to do so.


	4. Constant Craving, rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short Canada Day follow up to [Twenty-Three Years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22572736).
> 
> Title from our national treasure, k.d. lang.

Like people the world over, the citizens of Halifax are fond of enjoying themselves. The third anniversary of Confederation is as good a reason as any to celebrate, and the Roan Calf is packed from late morning well into the night, echoing with the sounds of drinking, singing and general merry-making.

“Can I get you another, Captain?” Nancy leans in close, to make herself heard over the din. 

“I’m all right, thank you.” Edward's position as a dear friend of the tavern’s proprietor has given him no special consideration. Rather the reverse: he has been pressed into service more than once, passing out drinks and delivering food. As his aid is not currently required, he is crammed into a corner, his knees pressed together and his hand tight around his glass. It has already been jostled twice, and the yeasty smell of spilled beer permeates Edward’s waistcoat as well as the room as a whole.

“Mr. Jopson’s certainly having a good time,” Nancy comments, a statement which is patently true. Thomas has been in the thick of it for hours now. Every time Edward’s eyes find him, it seems he has his arm around somebody new, and a fresh glass in his hand. It is summer, so Thomas’ face is clean-shaven, allowing Edward to see his cheeks are flushed a most fetching red. He does not believe it to be solely from the warmth of the tavern. “He’s a good man,” Nancy adds.

“Indeed.". Once again, she is entirely correct.

Thomas’ barmaid is no fool. She knows how close he is to Edward, and she knows Thomas moved into Edward’s house as soon as Edward settled in Halifax. She must have pieced together the truth, but if that is the case, she has never said anything to Edward about it. She goes off, summoned by a hearty cheer from across the room, and Edward sits back.

Although he would never tell Thomas so, he harboured some reservations about moving permanently to Halifax. As much as he longed to live with Thomas, to wake up in his bed every morning and to kiss him goodnight every evening, many years had passed since they spent more than a few days in one another’s company. What if Thomas came to believe Edward was palatable only in small doses? What if proximity bred contempt, as the saying goes, and nearness eroded their closeness, their love? What if Thomas regretted encouraging Edward to come here?

Edward’s worries have proven unfounded, as they so often do. His love is stronger now than at any other point in their long acquaintance. Thomas, it seems, can say the same. When he catches Edward’s eye, a brilliant smile lights his face. He winks and laughs, either at his own audacity or at something said by the men around him. Edward’s heart leaps as if he is once again a relatively young and romantically inexperienced first lieutenant, thrilling at the sight of a pretty steward in the wardroom.

By the time the final group of patrons are convinced to take their leave, it is very late. Edward watches them weave their way noisily and unsteadily down the street. He closes the door, and turns to survey the damage. It is a sight to behold.

“Go home, Nan.” Thomas lolls against a chair. His colour is still high, but his spirits seem to have faded somewhat. His eyes are tired when he smiles at Nancy, and worry at once seizes Edward. _I should have stopped him sooner. His health…_ “We’ll clean up tomorrow.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” Nancy is already taking off her apron. She hangs it on its hook. “Good night, gents.”

“Good night,” Edward repeats, closing the door behind her when she goes. Thomas’ old dog Merry, who took refuge in the back as soon as the rowdiness began, emerges from her hiding place. Edward himself is quite ready to leave for the night. He is about to fetch the keys when Thomas interrupts.

“You,” Thomas says.

“Yes?” Edward prompts, when nothing more seems forthcoming.

“You.” He pushes himself to stand upright. “Are a very handsome man.” His voice is slurred in a way that sends Edward at once back to his worst days, when Thomas’ illness was at its most severe.

Those horrible memories make him curt. He is more brusque than he means to be when he says, “And you’re drunk.” It is no great sin, and it happens rarely enough. He can’t remember the last time Thomas was in such a state.

“No. No, no, no, no. No.” Thomas steps forward, looping his arms around Edward’s neck. Edward glances towards the glass window, shifting them so they are hidden from anyone passing by. “Not drunk. Happy. Very happy you’re home with me. After all these years.” Tears shine in his eyes, and Edward’s heart seizes again, for an altogether different reason. “Edward…”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He knows it all. He _feels_ it all.

Edward is well into his fifties. He had a great Naval career, teeming with countless adventures around the world. Nevertheless, the past nine months, living here with Thomas, helping in the tavern and enjoying a quiet colonial life, have been unquestionably the best he’s ever lived.

When Thomas leans in for a kiss, Edward meets him halfway. They’ve done it many times over the years. Hundreds or thousands, Edward wouldn’t venture to guess. Every last one still feels as special to him as the first, when Thomas pressed their lips together, quick and shy, in the great cabin aboard Terror.

Drawing away, Thomas rests his forehead against Edward’s. It’s a simple act, again nothing new, but it spurs a wave of emotion within Edward. _Had too much to drink myself_ , he thinks, as his own tears threaten to spill. “I think we’ve both powdered our hair tonight,” he says, less ashamed than perhaps he ought to be.

A laugh escapes Thomas. “Speak for yourself.” He pulls back far enough for Edward to see the cheeky smile on his face. “I can still raise a cockstand. What about you?”

Edward gapes. “I, I, I…”

“That old bed of mine’s upstairs, if you fancy finding out.”

A blush, ridiculous given Edward’s age and the circumstances, comes to his face. Thomas kisses him again, on one hot cheek, and heads for the stairs with far more energy than he should rightly possess. Edward, for his part, does what has always made him happiest: he follows Thomas.


	5. Satisfaction, rated G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read more about Edward protecting Thomas at all costs, check out onstraysod's [A Man of Honor (With a Black Eye.)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724065/chapters/54610081)

Edward Little has never made such haste in his life. 

“I say, my man, your horse is damned slow.” He snaps. The cabdriver glances over his shoulder, then whips the wretched beast more vigorously. Under usual circumstances, Edward would feel guilty, but these circumstances are far from usual. 

When they at last arrive at Edward's destination, he throws his payment at the driver. The tip is generous; Edward hopes the man will put it towards some creature comfort for the horse. 

Lieutenant Jopson's boarding house is a respectable, well-kept building in a respectable, well-kept part of Portsmouth. The landlady—who, like boarding house landladies everywhere, is far too nosy—halloos from the sitting room as Edward enters. 

“Good morning, Commander Little, sir! The lieutenant ought to be at home. I haven't seen him go out yet today.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” This is good news. If Thomas is at home, perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps he has not yet heard what transpired. It is imperative Edward be the one to break the news, so he might at the same time explain it. He knows this man like he knows the Articles of War. If Thomas has heard the story from someone else, then he will have spent hours ruminating on it, growing angrier with each passing moment, and he will never listen to what Edward has to say for himself. 

He takes the stairs two at a time and knocks on the door to Thomas' room. There is no answer. Edward knocks again. When there is still no reply, he bangs a third time. This last brings result, albeit not the one he hoped for. 

“Go away, Edward,” Thomas shouts from within. 

Edward's shoulders slump. “Thomas, please. Let me explain.” Silence.

Edward is not a proud man, not when it comes to Lieutenant Jopson. “I beg you, Thomas. I know how it seems, and...”

The door is wrenched open so suddenly and so violently, Edward is surprised it is not torn from its hinges. Thomas is dressed down to his waistcoat, his sleeves rolled up to reveal that tantalizing spread of dark hair. Edward keeps his eyes trained on Thomas' face. His beautiful eyes blaze with fury as he looks Edward up and down, as if assessing him, and scowls. 

“I said, go away.” 

“I will not.” Thomas recoils at Edward's vehemence. As well he might. Edward is not usually so forceful, but he _will_ be heard. Then, if Thomas wishes to end all association with him, Edward will accept it with deep sadness and good grace. 

“And I will not have a, a, a...” Thomas lowers his voice. “A _lovers' quarrel_ in a boarding house corridor.” 

They had plenty of those up north, in front of God and the remnants of the ships' company. Nobody said anything, but Thomas is quite right. This is not the end of the world, it is Portsmouth, and there are standards to maintain. 

Buoyed by the fact Thomas still considers them lovers, Edward lowers his voice, but persists. “Then let me in. Please.” He will go on his knees, if that is what it takes. He will plead until his throat is dry, throwing all traces of dignity and decorum to the wind, but he has to tell his side of the story. 

After a pregnant pause, Thomas sighs but moves back, just enough for Edward to step into his room. 

It is warm and cosy, as always. Edward has spent many a pleasant night here of late, in the comfort of Thomas' bed, wrapped in the comfort of Thomas' arms. It is heaven of a type he never thought he would find, and he will do anything to preserve it. 

Anything at all. 

“Go on, then.” Thomas crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell me just what the hell you think you were playing at.” 

“I overheard Lieutenant Mason had insulted you.” That is the root of the thing. Mason, a useless little fop, a head shorter than Edward and less than half as experienced, exhibited the sheer, unabashed gall to denigrate Thomas. “Your background. Your origins.” 

“Yes? And?” Thomas looks at him expectantly. “People have been doing that all my life. If I took up arms against every one of them, I would be dead a hundred times over.” 

Edward swallows. “He claimed the only reason you are a lieutenant is because you provided certain...personal favours to Captain Crozier. And possibly the entirety of the Admiralty.” 

Thomas blinks. “Personal favours?” He repeats, lips twitching. “I imagine you mean laundering, mending, that type of thing?” 

Edward's face burns beneath the heavy weight of a blush. “Sexual favours,” he clarifies, in a low tone. 

“Ah. Well. Once again, this man would not be the first to cast aspersions on my character. I cannot believe you felt compelled to challenge him to a duel over it.” 

“It seemed the thing to do.” In truth, Edward would do it again, if the situation recurred. “He needed to answer for his words. I only wanted to force an apology out of the blackguard.” 

“I take it he didn't offer one.” 

“No.” The bastard had, in fact, told Edward to name a time and a place. Edward, a man of honour who had only ever broken one of the Navy's cardinal rules, was suddenly faced with breaking another. 

“Then what happened?” 

“You haven't heard?” 

“I heard some gossip that Commander Little and Lieutenant Mason were to fight a duel outside the city at dawn today. Since then, I've been here, knowing I cannot interfere and worrying myself sick you might be hurt.” 

The sentiment, even spit out with bitterness, makes Edward's heart soar. “I'm perfectly well,” he assures Thomas. “We'd counted out six of our ten paces--” and Edward, the weight of the pistol in his hand, suddenly could not believe he was doing this, while at the same time knowing it was absolutely the right course of action--“when a pheasant flew out of the bushes, making the most tremendous racket. Mason lost his nerve.” Edward very nearly did the same. “He turned and shot early, which meant I was allowed a free shot at him.” 

“What did you do?” The anger has gone from Thomas' face, replaced by wide-eyed concern. 

“I wanted to kill him.” It was the first time Edward had felt thusly for a fellow Englishman. He'd seen men flogged before, and hanged, and felt little sympathy for them, but he'd never wanted to personally inflict harm the way he had this morning. “Then I thought 'what would Thomas do?' I knew you would offer nothing but clemency and compassion, and I shot wide.”

Thomas' shoulder sag with relief. “Oh, darling.” He throws his arms about Edward. Happily, gratefully, Edward embraces him in return. 

“Mason apologized after that,” Edward adds. “Quite sincerely.” 

“I'm certain he did.” Thomas kisses his cheek. “I am still furious with you.” 

“Of course.” Edward expects nothing less.

“If you ever take such foolish action again, you had better hope you die on the duelling ground, because otherwise I will kill you myself.” 

“Indeed.” 

Thomas shifts, resting his lips against Edward's ear to whisper, “But thank you.” 

“It is my duty to defend you.” It is more than that. “It is my desire, Thomas.” Edward is not good with words. Even after all they've been through together, he has not the means to tell Thomas how he feels. He has to show him, to prove his love with deeds, even if they are foolish ones. 

Thomas answers him with another kiss, this time to his mouth. It lingers, and when Thomas pulls back, he is flushed. “I hope it is not all you desire,” he says, eyes wide and expression far too innocent to be genuine. “My gallant knight in broadcloth.” Without waiting for a reply—which is fortunate, since Edward cannot begin to formulate one—he slips his hands beneath Edward's jacket and slides the garment to the ground.


	6. Comme on fait son lit, on se couche, rated T, Thomas Jopson/Lucien Grimaud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the @terror_exe tweet: "@terror_exe: “edward little? edward little, who proposed to you? twice, as i heard?“" and dedicated to bluebacchus.

“Edward Little? Edward Little, _qui a demandé ta main en mariage? Deux fois, si je ne me trompe pas?_ ” Lucien stops abruptly, thunking the axe into the chopping block before him.

Distracted by the letter in his hand, it takes Thomas a moment to catch up with Lucien’s rapid French. He replies in English, as he always does. “They were hardly marriage proposals, darling.” Edward had twice asked Thomas to make a life with him back in England, once when they were still aboard ship, the second time on the shale. “And we know what came of them.” Nothing at all. Edward chose to go back to sea. Thomas’ health had improved greatly, but he was too permanently damaged to ever be accepted on another naval voyage. That hadn’t seemed to bother Edward. It certainly hadn’t stopped him.

“Anyway,” Thomas goes on, folding the letter, “he is merely asking after my wellbeing. I’m certain there is no nefarious motive.”

“Nefarious…” Lucien pronounces the word haltingly.

“Nothing to worry about.”

Lucien looks skeptical, but he returns to his work, chopping wood outside their little cottage in Normandy. Laying Edward’s letter to one side, Thomas leans back, closes his eyes, and lets the sun shine on his face.

He first saw Lucien Grimaud in a tavern of extremely poor repute in London, sitting in a corner and scowling. Even the rent boys were giving him a wide berth. With Lucien’s scars and his unkempt hair and his aura of danger, Thomas ought perhaps to have done the same, but something in the man appealed to something in him, something darker than the side of himself Thomas had shown aboard _Terror_. Something that had reared its head, just a little, when he’d put the noose about Mr. Hickey’s neck, and before that, when he told Hickey about shooting the hawk. He didn’t mean a bird. He wonders if Hickey understood that.

Thomas expected a brief fling, a night of passion to take his mind off the sting of Edward deciding captaincy of his own vessel was more important than playing nursemaid to a man he’d once claimed to love. Instead, Thomas found a connection more profound than he’d ever anticipated.

Lucien’s English was almost passable; Thomas’ French was nonexistent. It didn’t matter. They had a language of their own. A language of touch and taste, of intimacies Thomas had never experienced with anybody, not even Edward. They spent a week together. When Lucien invited Thomas to accompany him back to France, Thomas hesitated for only a moment before packing his bags.

Lucien is some kind of criminal. Thomas knows that. His French is improving apace, and, in any case, he’s not a fool. He knows the little cottage, the beloved horse, the luscious chocolates and the fascinating books—in both English and French—and the mouth-watering _pâtisserie_ Lucien brings him are paid for somehow, and the man has no obvious source of income. Thomas doesn’t ask questions. He kisses Lucien good-bye when he disappears, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for days. When he comes home, Thomas tends any new wounds gently, prepares Lucien’s bath, makes him a meal.

“I’m a good wife to you,” he once joked, but Lucien didn’t laugh.

“ _Tu n'es pas ma femme. Tu es le monde entier._ ” Thomas felt himself blush at the statement, spoken so frankly by this handsome, alluring man. Edward never told him he was the whole world. Edward never told him anything.

Gradually, Edward faded from the forefront of Thomas’ mind. He hadn’t thought of him in weeks, not even in passing, until the arrival of the letter.

As he told Lucien, the letter is simple. Edward explains Captain Crozier informed him of Thomas’ move to France, asks after his health, talks at length about his own recent voyage aboard the _Polaris_. It is the sort of letter one might write to any former shipmate. It betrays nothing of the feelings they shared, and it does absolutely nothing to rekindle those feelings in Thomas.

Nevertheless, Lucien seems suspicious. He stomps about the cottage, a glower on his face the likes of which Thomas hasn’t seen since that first night, when Thomas approached him in the tavern and offered a to buy him a drink. After dinner, when they would normally sit cosily together on their single plush chair, Lucien sits pointedly in the wooden one instead, as far from Thomas as he can get.

That is enough for Thomas. “You are being ridiculous,” he snaps. Then clarifies, “Silly. There is nothing between Edward and I, not any longer.”

“Why not? He is more…” Lucien hesitates, obviously searching for the word. “Suitable for you, no?”

“Why on Earth would you say that?”

“He is Navy,” Lucien spits the words bitterly. “He is English. He is a good man.”

Thomas had thought so, once. “One cannot always tell a good man by looking at him.” He stares pointedly at Lucien.

In return, Lucien scoffs. “You think _I_ am a good man?”

Lucien invited Thomas into his cottage, and has worked to make it more comfortable, more home-like for him. He has bettered his English for Thomas’ sake, and is teaching Thomas French with the patience of a saintly governess. He cares for Thomas without complaint whenever Thomas’ old ailments return to plague him. He keeps the fire going in the hearth, even when he himself is sweating, so Thomas might never feel the cold. He loves him with his body, worships him, until Thomas reaches peaks of ecstasy he hadn’t known were possible. He brings gifts, and provides money, and he would never, Thomas knows with absolute certainty, abandon him by choice. Never.

“ _Non_ ,” Thomas replies, getting up. He crosses the room to kneel at Lucien’s feet, his hands on Lucien’s wide thighs. Lucien’s scowl softens, and he runs a gentle hand through Thomas’ hair. That’s what he is. No matter how he may appear, Lucien is the gentlest man Thomas has ever known, and the best. “ _Tu es le monde entier._ ”

His accent is atrocious. It doesn’t matter. Thomas raises himself up, so he might kiss Lucien’s mouth. The beard, as always, scratches in the most pleasurable of ways, and Lucien’s arms come around him, holding him tightly as he kisses back.

Later, Thomas gets out of bed, still naked, and tosses the letter onto the fire. In an instant, it burns to nothing, the smoke curling up the stone chimney and out into the French countryside.


End file.
